Going North, part 2: Trail of Tears..er, I mean, socks

We've signed a lease on an apartment, which helps to make it feel like a place we are supposed to be, and more than just a weird vacation. We finally have a place to live that doesn't charge by the night. My kids are registered for school, I can navigate Wilmington Pike, Baltimore Pike, and Paoli Pike without Lola's help (most of the time), can properly order "gnocchi" from a menu with the proper pronunciation, and know to try to say "Thank yew" instead of "Thank you" so as to sound more local.

That said, I'm still getting used to the idea of being with my people 24/7. Dan has already been on a business trip for a couple of days. He'll leave again in a couple of weeks. Ironically, he was in Little Rock a couple days this past week, and will be there again within the month. Don't ask me about it - it just makes me bitter. On the brighter side, I can give him a huge list of items I want that either I forgot to pack or ran out of room to pack. On the darker side, I'm all alone with Buckner, Israel, and Palestine. And he gets to sleep in our bed. In our house. And see his parents. And our friends. And order food without being asked to spell what he's ordering (I am not the one with the accent - they are). Back on the bright side, it was a beautiful 73 degrees here today, dipping into the high 60's at night last night, whereas central Arkansas dipped down into what meteorologists called a cold front (mid-90s). Baaaaaaack on the dark side, Cole found a bottle of my OPI Rock-n-Roll red nail polish and not only attempted to paint his nails with it, but the bathroom floor, toilet bowl (inside and out), tub walls, door handle....whiiiiiiiicch sent me into another near-panic attack. Or maybe it WAS a panic attack, as the tightening of my chest is becoming too familiar. Jack found him in one of the bathrooms, and just said, "Mom, Cole's painting his nails."

This is and of itself is not terribly alarming, as he has done this before. I will give the boy credit. For four-years-old, he did a decent job. He got a little paint on his cuticles, and who doesn't. But by and large kept it all on his nails. His father was pretty disturbed, but at the time I thought it was pretty funny. He somehow did it without getting nail polish everywhere, which is very surprising.

Anyway, back to the current crisis. I went to look at what he was doing. Thank heavens I did, as he was trying to wash it off, and had pretty much ruined one washcloth trying to hide the evidence. We have now learned that you cannot wash nail polish off with soap and water. Nor can you entirely rub it off of your nails with a towel.

I felt like crying. Or making someone else cry. I can't have one phone conversation, walk into another room, or heaven forbid - go to the bathroom alone - without personal injury or property destruction being the result. I miss the days of simply going to an office and writing a response to a motion, answering interrogatory questions, and preparing for trial.

After I could breathe again, I herded the cats out the door, into the elevator, out the front door of the hotel past the front-desk people who now know me by sight and/or sound, across the parking lot, into the Suburban, and all over the county. I finally acknowledged that I had to take all the people into some store to buy acetone to attempt to get the nail polish off the toilet, tub, door handle, plumbing hardware, toilet bowl, tile floor....you get the picture....lest Staybridge Inn and Suites charge me eight jillion dollars to replace everything. Oh yeah, don't forget the MULTIPLE towels that Cole attempted to use to wipe off nail polish. Did I mention he ruined a pair of nice denim shorts with OPI red Rock-n-Roll nail polish?? Of course it wasn't one of the pairs I bought for $2.50 at Duck Duck Goose. It was the Gymboree pair. This is why you do NOT buy brand new, brand-name clothes for rambunctious little boys! It was while I was burning gas all over the county, venting to my sister-in-law on the phone, when she told me I needed to take a picture for the blog. This forced me to consider the humorous side of it...which I am still looking for. But I still took the pictures...








When we got "home," I dutifully scrubbed all non-porous surfaces with acetone. I think most of it is gone. In the meantime, I had poured detergent on his shorts and let them soak in the sink. I know, I know, this was an effort in futility as any fool knows trying to get nail polish out of clothing is like trying to stir concrete with your eyelashes. But it made me feel better to try. Then I had to wipe the nail polish off Cole's leg. That was the easiest part.




Laundry was piling up anyway, and I realized I should do a couple of loads so we don't start off in the new apartment with piles of dirty clothes. Plus - the hotel has three washers and four dryers available for guest use for free! The "laundry room" was as nice as the rest of the hotel, on the first floor, and connected to a fitness room with some free weights and cardio equipment, and a flat screen tv!! I was expecting coin-operated machines, in a scary basement with fluorescent bulbs that flickered, so this was a pleasant surprise. AND, they provide a laundry basket in your hotel room for your laundry needs. HOLY COW!!!!

It takes so little to please me right now.





Nail polish is cleaned up. Laundry is going. Nail polish is securely put away. The beast has pooped somewhere...I can smell it...it's under one of the beds. Smack in the middle of the floor under the bed under the floor. I have to move the bed. I pick up the poop, flush it down the toilet, and confiscate a couple of magic markers from the beast, even though she's already chewed them to bits - in addition to the three, maybe four, crayons she actually digested (later I will discover the vomited remnants of what I think is a red, white, and green crayon).



Then I find Israel and Palestine sitting in the wide windowsills eating yogurt. Some of the yogurt gets on the hotel curtains. And the floor. And their clothes. I wipe this down as well as I can. I have to go downstairs and move the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I manage to sneak downstairs and do this before Israel lobs another nuclear warhead at Palestine. Is this my life now? 'Cause I'm not so sure this is what I signed up for when I encouraged Dan to take this position...



There is a moment - just a moment - of peace. But it doesn't last. I don't know what the issues are, but in order to redirect the people, I suggest we all go downstairs to get the laundry that should be dry by now. Here is a script of what happens:

Mom: Cm'on guys...."DON'T RUNNNN COLE!!! Jack, Jack, let Katie push the button!! It's OKAY FOR HER TO PUSH THE BUTTON!!!"


Katie & Cole simulatneously: "I WANNA PUSH THE BUTTONNNNNN!!!!"


Jack: "COLE IS PUSHING THE BUTTON MOM MAKE KATIE STOP IT SHE IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE PUSHING BUTTONS COLE IS GONNA PUSH THE ALARM BUTTON!!!!!!!!!!"


Mom (at the same time as Cole is screaming, as set out below): "Cole! Katie! Cole! Cole! KATIE!!! STOP IT!!"


Cole: "Eeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! [PROJECTED AT MACH 10 VOLUME , LASTING APPROXIMATELY 14.6 SECONDS, AND RESPONSIBLE FOR SEVEN BROKEN WINE GLASSES SOMEWHERE DOWNSTAIRS]


We get on the elevator. Similar scene repeats itself in competition for the honor of pushing the button for lobby level. Varies slightly insofar as Mom's last quote changes; Mom starts off yelling Katie's name first. Group exits elevator stage left.


Group arrives at laundry room on first floor. The following exchange takes place:


Jack: "MOM!!!! COLE HAS THE CARD!!! HE'S TRYING TO OPEN THE DOOR!!"


Mom: "Jack, it's ok. Cole can use the card to open the door. I didn't say he couldn't."

Katie: "Maahhhhhmmmmy!!!!! COLE IS TRYING TO OPEN THE DOOR!!!!!! "


Cole: "Eeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! [PROJECTED AT MACH 10 VOLUME , LASTING APPROXIMATELY 11.8 SECONDS, AND RESPONSIBLE FOR ONLY FOUR BROKEN WINE GLASSES DOWNSTAIRS THIS TIME]


Mom: "COLE JUST OPEN THE DOOR!!!"


Cole successfully manages to slip the card-key into the door and four pairs of hands struggle to push the door lever down for the privilege of being THE ONE to open the door to the laundry room.



Finally. We arrive in the laundry room, sans laundry basket, which means I have to carry the laundry upstairs in my arms. OF COURSE it's the load of socks and underwear. Puh-lease. This is THE load that never makes it from dryer to sofa en masse. Why couldn't it be the delicates, the towels, the t-shirts and jeans? Noooooooooo sireee. It's the load of 187 little socks and boys' underwear in themes varying from Scooby-Doo to Transformers, with a handful of panties decked out in Barbies and My Li'l Pony.


Temporary melee as group disburses into the connected fitness area, and attempts to operate an eliptical machine, a couple of treadmills, and two rowing machines, but Mom persists in her efforts to bundle the endless array of tiny white pieces of little peoples' laundry into a manageable pile all while trying to keep the people in the immediate vicinity.



Mom herds the group out of the laundry room with thinly-veiled threats regarding the people's health and safety, onto the elevator, and onto the fourth floor. Three sets of feet charge toward room 402, and somehow a valid key card gets shoved into the key slot, and as the group scraps over who gets the distinction of acutally opening the door (for no less than the one-hundredth and eighteenth time) , Mom glances back down the hall towards the elevator.



Multiple crisp white socks in various shapes and sizes rest along the entire hall. As if they have belong there. Why do they look so indignant?? Like, "Come get me. I dare you. I like it here."

Of course they like it there. It's relatively quiet, except for the occasional, short-lived, and usually animated treks by hotel guests to their rooms.


Mom ushers the people into the room, and for a split second considers leaving the trail of socks on the fourth-floor hall. Mom goes back to slowly gather the socks, one by one. Mom knows that without a mate, later she will find a sock lonely, useless and worthless, and will more than likely throw the mateless ones in the trash. Not this time!

Thank goodness Dad will be "home" in a day, and then the burden is on him to make sure we don't leave a trail of socks to our room.